


Rift: Protectobots

by pink_shoes



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_shoes/pseuds/pink_shoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short look at what the Protectobots were up to during the events of Rift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siadea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siadea/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/590309) by [pink_shoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_shoes/pseuds/pink_shoes). 



> This fic was commissioned by Siadea! It was really a fantastic prompt that I had tons of fun with. 
> 
> If you haven't read Rift, this probably won't make too much sense.

Red Alert wasn’t exactly an uncommon sight around the Ark’s medbay, so when he walked in that morning, First Aid greeted him as usual. 

“Where is Ratchet?” the security director demanded immediately. “I need to speak to him.”

“Hang on, let me comm him,” said First Aid, turning his upper body away and raising a servo to his audial. [Ratch, Red Alert is here to see you.]

[I’m busy. Can you handle it for me?]

First Aid knew perfectly well that Ratchet was not busy at all, but didn’t point out the lie. Instead, he smiled at Red Alert as if nothing was amiss. “Ratchet’s busy right now. But if you need an exam, I can—”

“I’m not here for an exam,” Red Alert shoved past First Aid and positively stormed into the back area of the medbay. “Ratchet! I need some files!”

“Wait!” cried First Aid, scrambling after the security director. “You’re not authorized to be back there! Wait!”

Red Alert seemed to not hear First Aid’s protests, and by the time the medic-in-training caught up with him, he’d already cornered Ratchet in one of the back rooms. 

“I need these files unlocked,” Red Alert was saying. First Aid watched him thrust a datapad into Ratchet’s servos. “They require a medic’s override codes.”

Ratchet glanced down at the information on the pad and frowned. “They’re locked for a reason, Red Alert,” he said. His tone that made it clear that any arguments would be a waste of time.

“Yes, I understand that. But—” 

“I know you know the Autobot Code.” Ratchet tried to give the datapad back to Red Alert, but he wouldn’t take it. “What I don’t know is why you’re asking me to violate it.”

“This situation is—”

“I know damn well what the situation is. I know better than anyone.” Perhaps it was just First Aid’s imagination, but for just a moment, Ratchet looked…haunted. “Don’t you try to tell me what the fragging situation is.”

“We are dealing with a massive security breach!”

“Let me put this in terms you’ll understand,” said Ratchet. “How would you like it if I let someone look at your confidential records, Red Alert?” 

First Aid saw the security director flinch. “That’s completely different!”

“No, it’s not,” Ratchet’s voice became more subdued. “Now, I’ve got work to do, so unless you’re here for a physical—”

Red Alert’s faceplates flushed pink with rage, but he said nothing. Instead, he snatched the datapad back and then stormed from the medbay, slamming the doors behind himself. After the noise died away, an almost eerie silence hung over the room.

To say that things had been difficult over the last few days was a massive understatement, and First Aid was still struggling to process it all. 

At first, things had appeared to be looking up. The war was over, or so everyone was claiming, and why wouldn’t anyone be excited about that? There’d been celebrations, and free high-grade, and the humans had come with their microphones to get quotes from the Autobots. Everyone was talking about how they’d be going home, and while First Aid wasn’t entirely certain that he was ready to leave Earth, it was difficult to be unhappy. 

But then…

The base was still in an uproar over the revelation that Prowl had killed Soundwave’s twins during an interrogation, and the command staff had yet to make a formal announcement addressing everyone’s concerns. Instead, they’d spent most of their time locked in one meeting room or another, talking about Primus-only-knew-what. 

Ratchet had been at some of those meetings, but he hadn’t said anything to First Aid about them, and First Aid wasn’t sure how to raise the subject. He knew it wasn’t any of his business, he was just a medic-in-training, but it would have been nice to know what, if anything, the commanders were planning on doing about the incident. 

Out of all his brothers, First Aid felt the closest to Ratchet. And, to be honest, some tiny selfish part of First Aid was actually hurt that Ratchet hadn’t told him about the twins before the news had gone public. Ratchet had gone to the brig that night and attempted to save the remaining cassette, but there was little anyone could do for a twin who had lost his brother. 

The next day…First Aid liked to tell himself that he’d noticed that Ratchet had seemed a little quieter, a little sadder, a little more tired than usual. But he knew he was lying to himself. If the femmes hadn’t called, First Aid might have never known.

None of them might have ever known.

* * *

“What are we gonna do?” asked Streetwise.

Hot Spot looked at his brothers. First Aid and Groove were sitting together on one berth, pressed up against each other’s frames. Misery and confusion bled across their gestalt-link. It had been like that for days now.

“There’s nothing we can do, is there?” snapped Blades, who was leaned up against a wall, glaring resolutely out a window at the welcoming sky. 

“We should at least wait for Prime to make an announcement—” began Hot Spot. Even in the privacy of their quarters, where he knew none of Red Alert’s security cameras were allowed, he was unsure if they should really even be discussing this. Nobody had told him not to, exactly. It was just an unsettling feeling that he could not shake. 

“If Prime was gonna make an announcement, he’d’ve done it by now!” cried Streetwise. “This isn’t—this isn’t right! If the humans knew—”

First Aid lifted his helm. “They wouldn’t let it go, would they? The humans? They’ve got laws about—”

“We’ve got laws about it, too,” said Hot Spot. “It’s in the code. Prowl broke at least four or five, and that’s just the ones I can remember off the top of my head.” Hot Spot was the only one of his brothers who had read the entire unabridged Autobot Code (though First Aid was working on it). It was something that he took a great deal of pride in. 

“But nobody’s prosecuting anyone,” Groove said. “Cuz the ones who should be prosecuted are the ones who usually do the prosecuting. Right? So all anyone can do is…sit around.”

“Blaster didn’t think so,” said First Aid quietly.

“Aid!” cried all four of his brothers in unison. First Aid puffed out his armor plating defensively.

“Well, he didn’t!” protested First Aid. “There’s no point and pretending like—”

“Look, it doesn’t matter what Blaster did or didn’t think.” Hot Spot was trying his best to sound authoritative. “We’re not leaving the Autobots, okay? Don’t even—”

“I’m not saying we have to leave the Autobots! I’m just saying we don’t have to do nothing! We can do something.” 

“Like what?” asked Groove quietly. 

“The humans,” First Aid appeared to be a little bit more confident now. “If they knew—if someone told them—they’ve had trials for war criminals before.”

“Human war criminals,” spat Blades. “Human trials for human wars on a human planet.”

“And we’re on a human planet,” countered First Aid. “Look, the humans have this thing called the Geneva Conventions, and it’s like their version of the Autobot Code. And—”

“And how, exactly, would the humans be able to arrest an Autobot if he didn’t want to be arrested?” asked Blades. “What’s stopping him from just stomping them?”

“We do not stomp humans,” said Hot Spot in his best Optimus Prime voice.

Blades made a disgusted face. “Fine! What’s to stop him from laughing at them and walking away?”

“I think if the humans wanted to arrest an Autobot, Prime might go along with it.” First Aid spoke slowly. “He’s always saying we’re guests on this planet. He wouldn’t like it, but he doesn’t want to make the humans mad.”

“Okay, but I think Blades has a point,” said Streetwise. “Even if the humans did all that—had a trial and everything—and Prowl or whoever was found guilty…then what? Does he go to a human prison? Or the brig? Or the stockades on Cybertron, in spark extraction?”

“Prime would never go for that,” said Groove quietly. “He’d let the humans have their trial, then afterwards everything would go back to being exactly how it was, and nobody would be able to do anything about it.”

“You left out the part where the commanders literally murder us for telling the humans in the first place.” Blades seemed to find this amusing, though Hot Spot could not say why. 

“They wouldn’t murder us,” said Groove. “They’d just chuck us out of the faction and then we’d be homeless and have to take jobs doing stuff for humans.”

“You guys are forgetting that Prowl is too important to get rid of,” pointed out Streetwise. “Especially if the war isn’t ending after all. Without him and his battle computer, we’ll lose a lot more often. Locking him up won’t make the twins alive again, it’ll just make more Autobots dead.”

“So you’re saying if someone is important enough, they can do whatever they want?” First Aid looked outraged. 

“No. Yes. I don’t—I don’t know, okay?” Streetwise slumped forward and rested his chin in his servos. “Frag. This is…this is way more complicated than I thought.”

“We always thought the end of the war would make things easier,” mused Groove. “I guess we were wrong about that.”

“And I always thought we were supposed to be the good guys,” First Aid shook his helm bitterly. “But I guess I was wrong about that, too.”


	2. Don't Talk Like That

“This is complete slag!” yelled Blades. 

“Blades,” said Hot Spot anxiously, glancing around the crowded mess hall. “Please stop yelling. Mechs are staring.”

To Hot Spot’s surprise, Blades actually slumped down in his chair. “This is complete slag,” he muttered again, his rotors twitching with agitation. He glared down at his energon ration. “Slag.”

“Hey. It’s not permanent,” said Groove, reaching out to pat his brother’s arm comfortingly. “Probably.”

Blades groaned and laid his helm down on the table. “I’m gonna die. Bye, guys. It was fun. Tell Prime I said he could go f—”

But what Prime could do was cut off by Slingshot and Air Raid sitting down in the empty seats at the Protectobots’ table. 

“So I guess you guys heard?” asked Air Raid. 

“Uh. Yeah,” said Hot Spot, glancing back at Blades. The helicopter still had his helm pressed to the surface of the table. “Blades, drink your ration.”

“No point,” Blades’ voice was slightly muffled. “I’ll be deader than a cassette soon.”

“Blades,” said First Aid disapprovingly. “That’s not funny.”

“That’s cuz it wasn’t a joke, dumbaft.” Blades picked his helm back up. “I need to fly. You guys know I need to fly or I get all weird!”

“It’s Skyfire’s fault,” said Slingshot, with a hint of malice in his tone. “We’ve never done anything wrong—”

“—anything seriously wrong,” amended Air Raid. 

“—and Skyfire goes and frags it up for us by running off to join Shockwave or whoever! And now everyone’s looking at us like we might be next, just because we have wings!”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Hot Spot. 

“Yeah,” Slingshot’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “You’re probably right. They only issued a no-fly order to keep the cars from flying away.”

From beside him, there was the sound of Groove and Streetwise completely failing to contain their laughter. 

“Well, guess what?” continued Slingshot darkly. “They can’t keep us from the sky. They’ll have to lock us up if they want to, and there’s no more room in the brig.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Hot Spot uneasily. 

“Don’t tell me how to talk, Spots!” snapped Slingshot. He got up from his seat, and Air Raid was quick to follow. “See you later, Blades.”

Hot Spot glanced over at his brother. Blades had his end of the bond tamped down, and was now drinking his ration very quietly. But there was a gleam in his optics that Hot Spot immediately recognized. 

“Don’t do it,” Hot Spot muttered. “Whatever you’re planning, don’t do it.”

“Let’s see you stop me,” said Blades.

* * *

The announcement that Bluestreak and Beachcomber had been confined to quarters came as a shock to everyone. The two had broken no rules, but they hadn’t been particularly quiet about their opinions of the Cassetticon Incident.

There were lots of rumors flying around, and it was hard to separate fact from fiction. As far as Hot Spot could tell, Bluestreak (a talkative mech to begin with) had made the mistake of speculating a little too loudly about whether or not Prowl would be tried for his actions. Beachcomber, meanwhile, had taken a more active role in things. According to Groove, he’d attempted to petition Prime about the incident, and apparently things had gone badly. 

Now, there was a guard posted at each of their doors. Groove had tried to visit Beachcomber, only to be turned away by Cliffjumper. Mechs were saying that Jazz had managed to visit Bluestreak by pulling rank, but that might have just been a rumor. 

Hot Spot had a very good relationship with some of the local human firefighters, so when he and Inferno were invited out for a visit, he didn’t turn down the opportunity. It was only after the two firetrucks had left the Ark that Hot Spot realized just how oppressive the atmosphere on the Ark was becoming. His home—once a place of cheerful conversation and fraternity—was slowly transforming into something unrecognizable. 

Inferno seemed just as eager to go as Hot Spot was, even suggesting they put their sirens on so they could break the speed limit and get away from the Ark faster. Hot Spot shot that idea down, but as they drove along, he wondered what the older mech was going through. He was so close to Red Alert, after all. Did he support their security director, or did he think things had gone too far, like Jazz was rumored to?

But Hot Spot didn’t ask, and Inferno didn’t volunteer any information. Instead, their conversation stayed on more pleasant topics, mostly based around the humans and their activities. By the time they arrived at the city, Hot Spot was already in much better spirits. 

The humans were excited about the news that the war was ending (they were tired of having their cities turned into warzones), but soon enough the conversation turned to human things, budgets and grants and annual fundraisers, and even a little bit of interpersonal drama. With the humans, it was easy to pretend things were still normal. 

There was only one emergency, but it wasn’t a fire (to Inferno’s eternal disappointment). Still, they went along anyway to a surburban home that was dealing with a carbon monoxide leak. Fortunately, the alarms had gone off and nobody was harmed. The family was standing out on their lawn looking bored when the firefighters arrived, but they’d brightened up when they saw Hot Spot and Inferno transform. Hot Spot had spent the next hour or so being climbed on by the human children, and then hand-washed by their apologetic parents. The youngest boy had cried when it was time for the firefighters to leave. 

“You’re pretty quiet today,” commented one of the firefighters, a human man named Dave, as they drove back to the station. “Figured you’d be happy about the war ending and all.”

“It’s…complicated,” said Hot Spot. 

Dave nodded, and for a minute Hot Spot wondered if he knew. But then he said, “I guess you’re all going back to space, right?”

“I…suppose,” said Hot Spot. He’d barely even thought about it, with all the drama going on at the Ark. “I would like to finally see Cybertron. But I know I’ll miss Earth.”

“That’s right, I forgot you’re just a baby,” said Karen from his passenger’s side. She patted his dash like he was a human child. “Sheesh, I can’t believe they have you fighting so young. Don’t you have laws about that? The UN would go nuts.”

“Only protoformed newsparks count as children,” explained Hot Spot. _Protoforms…and symbiotes._

No. Don’t think about it. 

“Still, seems wrong. No offense to your people.” His scanners indicated that Karen was frowning. “You should be in robot school or whatever, learning…”

“Robot algebra,” suggested Dave. Karen laughed. “Space math.”

“Well, I’m glad I won’t have to worry about a Decepticon coming and kicking over our buildings anymore,” mused Karen. “Nothing makes you feel more powerless than watching a fifty-foot robot stomp through the financial district like it’s a field of wildflowers.”

“You’re not powerless,” said Hot Spot. “Your military has come up with some incredible things in just a few years.”

“What are you gonna do with all the Decepticons you captured?” asked Dave. “Or are they even still alive?”

It took all of Hot Spot’s self-control to not swerve off the road. “Uh, yes,” said Hot Spot, fighting to keep his vocalizer neutral. “They’re still alive.”

“It’ll be like the whatsemberg trials, with the Nazis,” suggested Karen. “Do you guys have the death penalty or are you too, like, advanced for that?”

“Unfortunately, we’re not,” said Hot Spot. “Executions are still legal on Cybertron, though spark extraction—that’s where they take away your frame and you live in a box—is the preferred method of punishment.”

The humans seemed to sense that Hot Spot was uncomfortable, and changed the subject after that. 

Unfortunately, the day eventually came to an end, and soon enough Hot Spot and Inferno found themselves making the drive home beneath the setting sun. 

After he arrived back at the Ark, Hot Spot went to the mess hall for his evening ration. Evening was usually a loud and social time, but now it seemed like the mess hall was a little less crowded than usual.

Some things hadn’t changed—there was still a loud conversation going on at the minibot table, and the frontliners had also gathered together to talk. But none of the mechs Hot Spot usually associated with were anywhere to be seen. 

Hot Spot grabbed his ration, but before he could take a seat, he received a comm from Prowl’s frequency. 

[Hot Spot, will you please report to my office tomorrow morning at first shift?] asked Prowl.

[Uh, alright,] responded Hot Spot. [Is something wrong?]

[Yes, actually,] said Prowl. [Apparently, the Dinobots staged a diversion this afternoon so that some of our aerials could sneak out for a quick flight. Blades was among them.]

[Oh no,] said Hot Spot. [Prowl, I’m sorry, I—]

[We will discuss it in the morning,] said Prowl firmly. [Right now, the Aerialbots are of greater concern to me.]

[The Aerialbots? Why?] asked Hot Spot. He could barely imagine Silverbolt violating the no-fly order, let alone breaking a rule that wasn’t stupid and pointless. 

But Prowl did not answer.


	3. Our Kind Are Not Soldiers

The next morning, Hot Spot reported to Prowl’s office, half-expecting the mech to tell him to come back later because he had far more important things to deal with. But when he knocked, Prowl welcomed him in. 

“Sit down,” said Prowl, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. “Thank you for coming. I have some important issues to discuss with you.”

“Sir, I’m sorry about Blades.” Hot Spot slid into the seat. “I should have had someone keep an optic on him while I was out.”

“I didn’t call you here to talk about Blades,” Prowl waved one servo dismissively. “Have you spoken with any of the Aerialbots recently?”

“Uh…” Hot Spot hadn’t been expecting that. “Well, of course. Our teams spend a lot of time together.”

Prowl nodded. “Yes, I’m aware. And I appreciate your influence on them.”

“My…influence?” Hot Spot frowned.

Prowl rested his servos on his desk and laced his digits together. “Hot Spot, I will be blunt with you. These are difficult times. It can be difficult to know who can be relied on to stay true to our cause. Your team, fortunately, has never given us reason to mistrust you.”

Hot Spot said nothing. He had the surreal feeling that Prowl had suddenly started speaking in another language. 

“The end of the war is within our grasp,” continued Prowl. “I know your team understands what that would mean to the humans. But do you know what it means to us?”

Hot Spot shook his helm blankly. 

“I have seen more battlefields than I care to count, Hot Spot. And on each of those battlefields, I’ve watched our mechs die. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands—mechs no different from either of us. They didn’t want to die. They didn’t deserve to die. I’ve planned battles knowing mechs would die, even if things went perfectly. And… things seldom went perfectly. ” Prowl seemed to be lost in his memories. “Not even I can calculate every variable.”

Hot Spot wondered if his silence was better or worse than a weak platitude. 

“They weren’t soldiers.” Prowl met his optics again. “Our kind are not soldiers, Hot Spot. I just want it to end before we drive ourselves to extinction.”

“I understand that,” said Hot Spot. “Really, I do. I just don’t see what the Aerialbots have to do with it.”

“The Aerialbots,” said Prowl, “are…unpredictable. And they are blinded by their admiration for the Decepticon seekers. I believe they may pose a security risk.”

“No. Not the Aerialbots.” Hot Spot shook his helm. “They’re just—they’re just upset about the no-fly order. They wouldn’t leave, though. And even if they wanted to, they care about Ratchet and Wheeljack too much. They might talk, but they’d never do it. Silverbolt would never let it happen.”

Prowl seemed to consider him. “Very well, Hot Spot,” he said after an uncomfortably long pause. “I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you,” said Hot Spot, relieved. “Is that all?”

Prowl nodded. But. “Silverbolt confides in you.” It wasn’t a question. “If he tells you anything that you believe would be of interest to me…”

“I understand,” Hot Spot got up quickly. “Thank you. I’ll be going now.”

* * *

But it was not the last Hot Spot saw of Prowl that day. Midway through his second shift, which mostly consisted of packing up old equipment that nobody would be needing anymore, he received a frantic spark-pulse that almost made him drop the boxes he was carrying.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” asked Sideswipe, tilting his helm curiously at the Protectobot leader. 

“I’llberightback,” gasped Hot Spot, shoving his boxes on top of the ones Sideswipe was carrying. Sideswipe yelled in protest, but Hot Spot wasn’t listening. It took all his self-control not to flip into altmode and drive all the way to his distraught brother. 

The pulse guided him to just outside the medbay, where a small crowd had gathered. Hot Spot shoved his way past the other onlookers to see that Ratchet and Red Alert were attempting to shout over each other. Just behind Red Alert stood Ironhide and Inferno, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. And First Aid…

First Aid was just behind Ratchet, and he was crying openly. 

“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet,” said Red Alert in a high, clear voice, “for concealing information critical to an investigation and obstructing justice, I am placing you under arrest.” And he unsubspaced a pair of stasis cuffs. 

Hot Spot rushed to his brother’s side just as Ratchet told Red Alert to do something that may or may not have been physically possible. First Aid was trembling like a leaf, and immediately pressed into his eldest brother’s arms. 

“Come on, Ratch, don’t make this harder than it has ta be,” Ironhide was saying. “Come with us and we’ll…we’ll get this sorted.” 

“This is slag and you know it, Ironhide,” Ratchet retorted. “I’ve served three Primes, and my loyalty has never once been called into question.”

Another mech pushed through the crowd—Streetwise. He must have sensed First Aid’s distress as well. Streetwise quickly glanced from Ratchet to Red Alert and back again, trying to take in the situation.

“He didn’t do anything wrong!” wailed First Aid. Hot Spot rubbed his brother’s back automatically, trying to calm him. 

“It’s okay, Aid, everything will be fine,” he murmured, though he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. But his programming was demanding that he soothe his distraught brother, and so Hot Spot had little choice. 

Ratchet turned his helm to look at the three Protectobots, and his expression softened slightly. “Go find Wheeljack,” he ordered Hot Spot. “I’ll be fine—don’t worry about me.”

“But—” protested Streetwise. 

“Go,” said Ratchet. 

Streetwise looked like he wanted to argue some more, but when Hot Spot pulled at his arm, he allowed himself to be led away.

* * *

Under normal circumstances neither the Protectobots nor the Aerialbots nor the Dinobots were allowed inside Wheeljack’s lab. But these were hardly normal circumstances, and now all fifteen of the mechs that he had helped create had crammed themselves into the lab.

The Dinobots were furious, and Hot Spot knew how they felt. As a Protectobot, making sure his team was alright came first, but underneath his concern for his brothers was a dark, simmering rage. Swoop was actually flying from one end of the room to the other over and over, as if that might solve the problem. 

“I don’t understand,” whispered First Aid. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t.”

“Ratchet not Decepticon,” agreed Snarl. “Prime glitching. Him Grimlock make better leader until Prime circuits get fixed.”

“Him Grimlock replace him Prime,” suggested Sludge. “Then let him Ratchet out of brig!”

“Or Slag replace Prime,” suggested Slag, which immediately started a fight that Wheeljack had to break up. Hot Spot was quite impressed by the way the engineer bravely squeezed his frame between the two Dinobots without suffering a single scratch. The fight came to a quick end when the two realized they couldn’t hit each other without injuring their creator. 

“I know you’re upset,” Wheeljack said. “I’m upset too. But right now, the best thing to do is just wait. Confronting Prime will probably only make things worse.”

“But I don’t want to do nothing!” shouted Blades. “There’s so many of us, we could break him out!”

“Good plan,” said Grimlock approvingly. “Me Grimlock lead attack.”

 _“No,”_ said Wheeljack. “Primus. No. That’s the last thing we need right now.”

All three teams went quiet.

“Why is this happening?” whispered Groove. “It all seems like a bad dream, doesn’t it?”

“I know,” said Wheeljack, putting a comforting arm around Hot Spot’s brother. “But my only priority right now is making sure you don’t get yourselves locked up as well. Do you know what Ratchet would do to me if you did?”

Hot Spot couldn’t quite suppress a smile at that, and glanced up in time to see Silverbolt cover his lipplates with his servo. 

“Do your best stay out of trouble,” continued Wheeljack. He looked directly at Grimlock. “And that means no more staged fights directly outside Prime’s office so your brothers can go flying!”

If Wheeljack thought the Dinobots would be chastised by this, he was sadly mistaken. The entire team guffawed at the memory. Wheeljack pressed a hand to his helm. “I’m serious. If you keep upsetting the commanders—”

“We’re not going to not fly,” said Air Raid flatly. “Sorry, but we’re just not. That shouldn’t make us Decepticons.”

“Aerialbots not Decepticons,” agreed Grimlock. “Look like Decepticons, maybe. But not Decepticons. Grimlock know Decepticons. Grimlock smash Decepticons! Aerialbrothers not Decepticons.”

“We don’t look that much like Decepticons,” said Slingshot defensively. 

“Yeah,” agreed Blades. “Decepticons are prettier.” 

And that was how a second fistfight broke out. This time, Silverbolt and Hot Spot jumped in to pull their respective brothers apart before any damage could be done. 

“Alright, alright,” said Wheeljack, once both sides had calmed down. “That’s enough. I know you’re scared, but you need to be on your best behavior from now on. The Commanders have enough to deal with as it is.”

“That’s not our fault!” protested Fireflight. 

“I know it’s not!” Wheeljack had a hint of desperation in his optics. “I know it’s not fair, but that’s the way it is right now. Please, just…just try to cooperate, alright? I don’t know what the Commanders will do if you keep disobeying them, and I don’t want to find out!”

Nobody said anything. Hot Spot felt Groove and First Aid press up closer against his frame. Wheeljack cycled his vents. 

“I know it’s not fair,” said their creator again. “But it will be over soon. Everything will be alright. I promise.”

* * *

The next morning, Hot Spot was shaken awake by anxious servos. He onlined his optics blearily and stared up at Streetwise.

“What is it?” Hot Spot mumbled. “Is someone—?”

“Mirage and Perceptor left last night,” Streetwise whispered. 

“What?” Hot Spot sat up slowly. “What did you say?”

“I said, Mirage and Perceptor left last night.” Streetwise was speaking so quietly that Hot Spot had to dial up his audials to even make out the words. “I think—I think they went to Cybertron. To…to Shockwave.”

“Shockwave?”

Streetwise nodded. Hot Spot had never seen his brother so solemn before. 

“Primus,” said Hot Spot. “This is out of control.”

Streetwise nodded again. “I…I tried to talk to Prowl.” He sat down on the berth and looked away. “It was stupid. It was stupid. But I just…”

“What did you say?” asked Hot Spot, alarmed. 

“I asked him if he wanted to go for a drive,” said Streetwise. “Because I know he’s been… he’s been having a hard time. And I though… maybe he’d want to get out… and we could talk about things.” Streetwise looked back to his brother, faceplates full of hurt. “He yelled at me.”

Hot Spot shifted forward onto his knees to give his brother a hug.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we decided to throw in a little epilogue for this story, so the Pbots get some closure. This takes place after Sunstorm attacks Portland, but before everyone goes to Cybertron to discuss the peace treaty.
> 
> I do regret not being able to do all the interim chapters, which I do have outlined, but maybe that will change in the future.

The wreckage stretched for five blocks, and most of it was still warm.

"I’d hoped we were done with this sort of thing," said Karen, coming up to stand in Hot Spot’s shadow. She, like all the other humans who had gathered to help with the clean-up, was wearing a mask and goggles over her faceplates. It made it a little difficult to tell them all apart.

“Still, I suppose I’ve seen worse,” continued Karen. She looked up at Hot Spot expectantly. “I guess this mean the war’s still on, huh?”

“Should have known it was too good to be true,” commented another firefighter, one that Hot Spot did not recognize. He wore a uniform from a neighboring city, which meant he’d been called in specially to help with the clean-up. 

“I’m not sure,” Hot Spot murmured. “Someone’s drafted a peace treaty, and a lot of mechs are really in favor of it, so there might be hope after all.”

“I don’t see why you didn’t just kill ‘em all while you had the chance,” said the male firefighter, resting his weight on the shovel he was using. “Don’t need to mess around with treaties if they’re all dead.”

“I…I don’t make those decisions,” said Hot Spot weakly. “My team is technically medics.”

Fortunately, the male firefighter’s reply was lost in the roar of rotaries as Blades came in for a landing. 

“How’s it look?” asked Hot Spot, happy to change the subject. 

“Not bad, actually,” said Blades, transforming into root mode. “Five blocks destroyed, a couple hundred wounded, not even twenty dead. A cassette throwing a temper tantrum could have done more damage.”

“Blades,” snapped Hot Spot. “A bit of respect, okay?”

“I’m not being disrespectful, I’m stating a fact! Most of the damage happened when the thing landed, just from the impact of him turning off his thrusters and hitting the ground. Ask Silverbolt if you don’t believe me.” 

Hot Spot sent out a spark-pulse to his brothers. Within a matter of moments, they’d all gathered around him. 

“How’s it look, guys?” he asked. 

“All the wounded have been transported to the surrounding hospitals,” reported First Aid. “I’ve been scanning wreckage for lifesigns, just in case there’s people trapped inside, but I think I got them all.”

“Most of the wreckage is still too hot for the humans too touch, so they’re probably going to wait a few hours before the real cleanup efforts start,” contributed Streetwise. “Fortunately, the damage doesn’t look too bad. He didn’t wander around very much, and he didn’t punch any buildings over.”

“Told you,” said Blades, elbowing Hot Spot in the chest. 

“He did fire his weapon,” pointed out Hot Spot. 

“Yeah, but he aimed at stuff that was already slagged up,” Groove contributed. “It was only a diversion, after all.”

“Diversion or not, there’s still humans dead,” snapped First Aid. “I hope the end of the war was worth it.”

* * *

That evening, Prime made the first official announcement since the beginning of the entire debacle. The treaty that Skyfire had drafted was being taken under heavy consideration, and the Autobots would be withdrawing to Cybertron.

“A contingent will be left behind, in the event the Decepticons decide to return,” Prime was saying. “I know you’re all eager to return home, but the incident in Portland has left the humans feeling uneasy.”

At those words, Hot Spot felt four different pushes at his spark. He stepped forward, and Prime looked at him expectantly. 

“My team would like to stay,” the words tumbled from Hot Spot’s vocalizer so quickly that he feared he might have been unintelligible. “We want to stay on Earth. Especially with the damage—”

Prime cut off his ramblings with a quick nod. “I appreciate you volunteering. I’m sure the humans will be glad to know you’ll be watching over them.”

Hot Spot nodded solemnly, but said nothing more. He had always respected and admired Prime. But now, all he could seem to muster up was indifference, tinged with a little hint of scorn.

As the meeting came to an end and the crowd began to dissipate, Wheeljack and Ratchet found the team. Neither of their looked seemed particularly surprised. 

“The Ark isn’t going anywhere for a long time,” said Wheeljack. “You’ll have the place to yourself, huh? Try not to make too much of a mess of it.”

“I guess you’re going with them?” asked Hot Spot. 

Ratchet nodded. “The whole command staff is. And Wheeljack will be needed when we start restoring power to Iacon. But if anything goes wrong, you know we’re just a spacebridge jump away.”

Groove was the first one to hug their creators, wrapping one arm around each. The rest of the team was quick to follow his example. At one point, half-lost in the warm cluster of familiar frames, Hot Spot glanced over at Prime again. The mech did not meet his optics, but it probably wasn’t deliberate.


End file.
